


The Games We Play

by The_White_Rabbit42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 23:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10932234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_White_Rabbit42/pseuds/The_White_Rabbit42
Summary: Just when you think you know what your role is with the British Men of Letters, everything changes, starting with Mick wanting to work with you.  Turns out, he’s not what you expected.





	The Games We Play

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for @faith-in-dean's BMoL challenge. My prompt was: “If you don’t like it, you can sleep in the car.”
> 
> This was supposed to be a three part series, but in the interest of not releasing chapters in upwards of 8k a piece, I’m breaking it down more and going slow burn. Hope you enjoy!

 

This is not what you agreed to when contracting with the British Men of Letters.  You swallow an ultimatum vying for a spot on your tongue but it sticks, caught on the most recent orders lodged in your throat.  You manage to clamp down on it, casually leaning against the wall, arms folding over your chest as you glare up at the only person you’ve been hunting with over the last several weeks.  

 

“Ketch--”

 

“Arthur,” the response is automatic, as much a reflex as it is routine in the tentative relationship you hold with him.  

 

“Ketch,” you repeat firmly, and by the thin set of his lips he isn’t pleased.  Good.  Neither are you.

 

“He’s your boss,” you continue, trying to keep things on track.  “Shouldn’t  _ you _ be babysitting him?”

 

It isn’t a bad idea for Mick to get more field experience considering how close he came to having his entire staff wiped out by vampires.  You just aren’t convinced it’s a  _ good  _ one that he does so with you.  You’re not certain you’ve even spent a collective hour with the man since you’re not actually part of his operation and you can’t help but feel this is his latest recruitment stunt.

 

“As you said, he’s my boss.  Therefore, I go where he tells me,” Ketch drawls and he seems as enthused as you are about this.  His gaze drifts down the front of you, skirting the line of inappropriate as it dips below your neck before gliding down to your left hip.  

 

“What’s that?” he inclines his head and you might be tempted to check, but he’s one of those people you don’t dare take your eyes off for a moment.  There’s the faintest trace of a smirk, as if he knows you know this when  _ you  _ know he’s grasping at straws.  

 

The smirk widens when he leans closer, and his hand brushes the curve of your waist as deft fingers slip into the inner pocket of your jacket.  This newfound boldness makes you think maybe a break from him isn’t a bad thing.  You know better than to react, careful to keep your features schooled as he pulls out the sleek silver cigarette case you always keep on hand. 

 

“These will kill you, you know,” he tutted.  

 

As if you’ll even live long enough to experience the more lethal effects of smoking.  

 

He brings it closer to his face for inspection and his weight shifts forward the slightest bit.  Your heart picks up a few extra beats, a slow stream of adrenaline leeching into your veins.  Blue fixes on you intently, as if sensing the arousal, and for a moment you’re caught in the crosshairs of his steely gaze.

 

You wouldn’t say Ketch is necessarily interested in you.  Curious is a better word.  Intrigued.  Focused in a way that’s a tad too close to preoccupation.  However you categorize his attention, it exists because he can’t quite figure you out, and you can tell it’s driving him mad because he is good at what he does.  His job requires him to read people.  Yet you are an outlier and a challenge, one that he’s determined to overcome.   

 

This is why he tests you.  At first, it was gentle brushes against boundaries to get a feel for where yours stood.  When those attempts gleaned little in the way of knowledge, he began to push a little harder, acts growing bolder until you find him more and more in your personal space, trying to find those lines that elude him.   

 

You reach up for your container only to have him pull it back and it brings you both closer another inch.  His lips give that antagonizing smile while yours remain set in a neutral line.

 

Normally it amuses you when he tries to get beneath your skin.  

 

Normally, he’s not handling things that belong to you and that he has no business touching.

 

He is so close you can smell his cologne, something so familiar, it might become a comfort were you both different people.  You can feel the heat from his body, his blazer grazing the front of your jacket as only a miniscule gap remains between you.  All you can do is stand your ground, however.  Anything else would be admitting weakness, something unwise with a man like him. 

 

“Some people believe it to be a  _ filthy  _ habit,” he says, and despite the set up, the insinuation in his tone falls a little flat. Part of you hopes he’ll follow the line by asking if you are, in fact, a  _ filthy girl _ .  The delivery is guaranteed to be the most entertainment you’ll ever get from him.  Everything in his world is stiff and concrete and you imagine flirtations, real or facetious, are no exception.  

 

“You strike me as someone a tad purer than that,” he remarks casually, leaning forward in a way that walks a fine line of suggestive and outright intimidation.

 

“And you strike me as a man who gets his hands dirty with all sorts of things,” you tease, though a subtle sharpness ensnares your remark, making your intent just as dubious.  Both your faces ghost with sentiments that can be construed in a number of different ways.  Neither one of you is playing coy and yet there’s a heady rush of tension in the air that makes you suddenly wary, and you’d need to be numb from the waist down not to feel a little electricity.

 

He’s smart, capable,  _ dangerous _ in all the best ways, but there’s a hint of something else beneath the surface.  It remains as much a mystery as you are to him, only your instincts tell you to tread lightly.  Preferably in the opposite direction.  Since you trust your gut feelings more than you’ll ever trust him, you plan on heeding them.  

 

“Does that bother you?” he asks.  His head tilts slightly and the way his eyes drop swiftly to nothing in particular before darting back up to yours suggests the curiosity you see is genuine.  

 

“Does it bother you that mine may be clean?” you deflect.  

 

The slightest huff of air leaves his nose, but that smile of his whispers of something other than amusement.  It skirts the fringe of predatory, pulling from the dominant air that fills the vacuum left when his superiors are not telling him how high he needs to jump.    

 

He hands the case back and instead of tucking it away you keep it firmly in your grasp.  When he steps back to give you breathing room, his body angles in a way that has you more cornered than before.  The dance continues, and while there’s plenty of space to move around him, you’re not willing to back down from the gauntlet he’s thrown.  

 

“You’re in my way again,” you point out, almost sounding bored; your demeanor remaining as stoic and unperturbed as you can manage.  

 

“My sincerest apologies.”  The only sincere thing about him is his insincerity, as he remains right where he his.  That smile remains fixed on his face and you muster one that’s so sweet and pleasant his breakfast must be creeping back up his throat just looking at it.  

 

“Is there a reason we’re all standing around?”  Mick’s voice carries more authority than you expect.  Then again, it’s not like you’ve actually heard the man speak much.  You listened long enough to be polite (which was the duration of his sales pitch) and since then just as politely tuned him out of existence which seems only to have served to place you more firmly on his radar if you’re the one he’s choosing to grace with his first outing.

 

His tone is enough to break the ongoing pissing match you hold with Ketch and since it is  _ his  _ boss, he’s the first to back down.  He steps back, revealing a sober looking Mick.  Ketch gives a smile that is one part artificial respect and a whole lot of smugness that spills into the gap between them, thickening the air with a deep-seated tension that catches you off guard.  

 

Apparently you aren't the only person he likes to toy with.  

 

Mick hands Ketch a dossier, maintaining that professional attitude, though there’s an undercurrent of something you can't quite identify.  It intrigues you, because he is a man that strikes you as easy.  To read.  To manipulate.  To be killed or get  _ you  _ killed.  

 

Ketch is of the same mindset, his lip giving that self-conceited curl before he wishes you, “ _ Safe  _ travels.”

 

You watch him walk away and the uneasiness ebbs, but as you find yourself truly alone with Mick for the first time, a new tension rises in its place.   

 

“We should get going,” he suggests, his tone a touch softer.  The look on his face is all business, however, before he, too, turns and heads towards the vehicles.  Without knowing the bigger picture, you can’t do much with them yet.  All you can do at the moment shoulder your bag and follow, no matter how much you resent having to do so.   

 

***

 

“I know you don’t like me,” Mick’s voice shatters the silence, but it’s his insight that catches you off guard.  Either he’s more observant than you give him credit for, or Ketch is an awful gossip.  Considering how laden the men’s brief interaction was, the latter is not entirely outside the realm of possibility.  

 

You grimace, having the decency to look somewhat contrite.  You wonder if he knows just how much complaining you’ve done as of late.  Despite your opinions, you didn’t mean to give him that impression.    

 

“It’s not that I don’t like you,” you begin, unsure of how to explain it to him; is there even a diplomatic way to say you don’t want to die because Mr. Bureaucrat needs an ego boost? “It’s just I don’t want to be responsible if the man in charge goes down on my watch.”

 

The look he gives suggests he would prefer you just hate him rather than think him inept.  

 

“I’m not without skill,” he insists.  “I graduated from Kensington with --”

 

“I know your credentials,” you cut in.  The way your manners give you a swift kick in your conscience, you realize how much of bitch you’re being.   The combative, dismissive demeanor you naturally adopt in his presence isn’t who you are.  It’s just that Mick puts you on the defensive in ways you don’t understand and it’s obviously giving him the wrong impression.

 

“From what I understand, they’re quite impressive,” you add, trying to smooth things over.  

You just fail to see how all that knowledge is going to help him take the head off a vampire before he gets his ripped off.  

 

The car slows as you approach a traffic light.  As soon as you’re at a stop, he turns, not just his head, but his entire body so that his shoulders are squared.  He’s making a stand, features sober, hands gripping the wheel with determination.  Your mind, however, is already half checked out, not wanting to hear whatever spiel he’s prepared.  A sales pitch isn’t going to magically make you trust him, unless he happens to cast a spell along with it.  

 

He clearly doesn’t have any of those yet if he’s still giving that God-awful, “Imagine a world without monsters,” speech.  

 

Your eyes drift over his features, taking in every detail.  You gaze ends up settling on his eyes and you can’t help but notice the way they are hazel, not green as you originally thought.  The sun catches them in just the right way, illuminating verdant depths and highlighting the small smattering of warm bronze in the center.   

 

It's far different from the frost-kissed hues you’re accustomed to staring back at you. 

 

“I understand you might have a preconceived notion of who I am, but I assure you, I’m not helpless,” he asserts.  His stare locks with yours and you’re can’t remember the last time you saw someone look so sure of themselves without also seeming self-conceited.  

 

You still need to bite back the snark crawling into your mouth.  You’re not certain what his game is, only that he’s playing one.  The British Men of Letters are known for many things, but being genuine or transparent is not one of them.  

 

“I’m not going to get you killed.”  His promise makes you pause, but it’s the echo in his eyes that has you questioning his sincerity, or rather the insincerity you suspect.  It speaks of someone who is far more humble than he lets on, one that recognizes he has limitations, and the suit he wears will not stop him from bleeding.

 

It is completely unexpected, and it almost makes you believe him because it lacks the scripted quality that’s always underscored most of his interactions with you.  

 

A horn blasts behind you and you glance up to find the light is green.  Mick’s eyes remain on you a few moments longer before swinging back to the road.  As the car begins to move again, the silence that settles is laden with unspoken thoughts in the seemingly one sided conversation.

 

“I get it.  You don't trust me.  So how do we work around that?”  He questions. 

 

The way he calls you out is a refreshing change from all the subtleties and subterfuge woven into your dance with Ketch.  You’re not convinced the steps he’s taking aren’t as deliberate or steeped in strategy, but there’s a spark of something in Mick’s gaze that suggests there are not as many layers to sift through.     

 

You watch him from the corner of your eye as you try and figure out how to answer him.  What you say is critical to resetting the impression he has already formed.  The question is, who do you want to be? 

 

“You follow my lead,” you decide, and you make the words come out as a simple truth rather than a demand.  “And we do this my way.”

 

Starting with the man getting the lead out of his ass and putting it in his foot.  At this rate, you’re going to run out of daylight before you even arrive at your destination and facing those creatures at night with him is  _ not  _ part of the game plan.  

 

“Does your way include having you drive or should I pretend not to notice you eyeing the speedometer all day?”  He asks and the dryness in his tone is so subtle you’re not certain whether or not it's intentional.  

 

“Stop driving like you frequent the early bird specials and we won’t have a problem,” your sass has you jumping straight into unknown waters instead of continuing to ease in like you should.  You want to believe it’s the unexpected change in routine that has you thrown off kilter, but you’re beginning to believe it may just be the man sitting next to you.  

 

You dislike this more than the feeling that today has already slipped well beyond your control.

 

He glances at you sideways again, most likely trying to figure out whether you’re teasing or taunting.  The engine roars as he presses the gas pedal a little harder and you reward him with an enigmatic half-smile you hope will confuse him further.  

 

Curiosity flares in the arch of his brow, but the reaction is short lived.  Everything smooths once again, his demeanor shifting to something more cordial and friendly despite your tentative relationship.

 

It’s exactly what you’d expect from Mr. Davies. Whatever glimpse of the Man in the Suit you thought to have gleaned disappears beneath the surface.

 

“I’m actually more of a cocktail hour person,” he says flashing you a genial smile.  

 

***

 

There’s plenty of time for conversation on the drive.  You can tell he’s good at what he does.  There’s a subtlety about the interest he shows and the way he follows up that’s designed to make it easy to converse with him.  It’s far more natural than the speech he gave when you first met, and you wish he’d shown this side of himself before. 

 

Despite his verbal skills, you make sure to keep things light, skimming the surface without slipping too far beneath the waters.  Anytime he tries to wander off track, you herd him back to the shore through distraction or well-placed misdirection.  You save your sarcasm and humor for another time.  There’s no reason to tip your hand all at once.

 

Besides, you’ll have plenty of time to mess with him once he realizes where it is you’re staying.

 

You couldn’t have picked a better place, or worse, for that matter, if you had tried.  It’s the only motel within five miles of where you’re headed.  There is a bed and breakfast a little further out, but you did tell Mick you were doing this the American way, which means the cheaper, the better.

 

You already have a taste for the British Men of Letters’ standards.  You’re curious to see how Mick reacts having to step outside of those, and likely his comfort zone.  

 

By the time you get to your destination, the sun has crept steadily across the sky.  Thankfully, there’s still a few more hours of daylight left, leaving the man beside you the sole focus still.  The moment he turns into the parking lot you can see the disbelief blooming across his features.  

 

“Are you sure this is the right place?”  

 

You can’t tell from his incredulous tone whether he’s more in doubt about your ability to make decisions or hoping that he’s just somehow got the wrong address.  

 

“Your budget will thank me.”  You can’t help the wryness that weaves through your words and the look you receive suggests that said budget is the only thing that will be thanking you.  You flash him that same, genial smile he’s been leveling at you the entire car ride and it almost becomes a smirk as exasperation ripples through hazel.  

 

You wonder just how far you’ll have to push him to get him to act on it.  

 

Pleased for the moment, you step out of the vehicle, giving him no choice but to follow you as you head toward the main office.  

 

The man sitting behind the front desk is exactly who you’d expect to find in a place like this.  There’s so much grease, in his hair, in the way he eyes you, in the slick smile he gives, and the last suggests you really don’t want to think too closely about what goes on within his mind.    

 

Ironically, Mick seems more perturbed than you are, though it might just be due to the fact that you’re actually telling the man you’ll take a room for the night.  

 

You’re tempted to flash your gun at the clerk when he’s not even subtle about the way he’s staring at your chest as you pull your jacket open to grab your wallet.  You decide to behave more for the sake of making a better impression with Mick than anything else.  Your fingers slip into the inner pocket, the one opposite the side you carry the cigarettes, and everything stills when they unexpectedly come up empty.

 

You turn to the Brit, cheeks flaring, though it’s not embarrassment that’s burning through you at the moment.  

 

“Must have forgotten my wallet,” you say, tamping down on the fire raging through you as you give him an expectant look. 

 

Because telling him one of his men was slimy enough to steal from you seems unwise at this juncture without actual proof.  

 

Mick doesn’t hesitate, simply steps up beside you, pulling his out.  You notice the way he slaps the credit card onto the counter, intent on avoiding direct contact with the man.  You don’t blame him.  You wouldn’t risk it either.

 

“What kind of business are you two in, exactly?”  The man’s prying comment is irksome as he places the card on one of the old mechanical, carbon-copy credit card machines you rarely saw anymore.  There’s all sorts of curiosity and implication dancing in the air around him as he looks back and forth between you in your leather, and coincidentally, form fitting wear and Mick in his expensive suit.  

 

It unexpectedly hits a nerve.

 

Rather, you’re already seething from Ketch pulling one over on you and you’re more than ready for an excuse to mess with someone.  

 

“The kind where I shoot you if you ask too many questions,” you give him your most saccharine smile and this time you  _ do  _ flash him your gun.  

 

The man’s lecherous leer falters, his eyes widening as they swing to Mick. 

 

“What she said,” Mick gives a pleasant smile of his own, his tone so casual you would think you’d just relayed you both traded stocks for a living.  The fact he plays along takes the edge off your anger and the look on the man’s face has the rest ebbing enough for you to get your head back in the game.  

 

You’re not sure if it’s the man’s questionable IQ or if you and Mick actually make a formidable team.  Whatever the reason, the man suddenly exudes politeness and ingratiating obsequiousness, even going so far as to throw in a “sir and ma’am” when he wishes you both a good day.  

 

“I think he thinks we’re federal agents,” Mick murmured once you both are out of earshot, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement.  

 

“Aren’t we?”  You ask, lips twisting wryly as you make your way back to the car.  

 

“You tell me.  I’m following your lead,” he reminds you.  You wonder if that’s the only reason he played along, or if he has a genuine sense of humor that goes beyond knowing how and when to make a joke to put someone at ease. 

He pops the trunk and you note the way he grabs the gear in addition to his suitcase, leaving you with just your bag.  You pick up your things before you hold out your hand expectantly. 

 

“Second rule of hunting with me: we act like a team because we are a team,” you inform him when he gives you a blank look.  He hands over one of the extra packs and he’s mentally cataloguing your instructions by the way he refrains from leading you to the door, choosing instead to walk by your side.  

 

“What’s the first rule?” He asks as you both cross the short distance across the parking lot.  

 

“First rule of anything is don’t get anyone killed, including yourself,” you deadpan.  There is a joke in there somewhere, only you’re the most serious you’ve ever been when dropping this line.    

 

“Glad to see we have  _ some  _ similar standards,” he mutters, and you have a feeling he’s talking more to himself than to you.  He uses the key to unlock the door, but before he can even think of letting you in first, you gesture for him to go ahead.  He barely makes it through the threshold, stopping short so suddenly you almost collide with him.

 

Your hands come up, brushing across the center of his back as you deftly change course at the last second.  Your hip brushes his as you step around him, and there’s an unexpected reaction to the contact you don’t take the time to acknowledge.  You’re too busy scanning the room to find out what has him frozen in place.  

 

You half expect to find a dead body, although something tells you he might actually feel more comfortable staring at one of those.

 

“There’s… only one bed,” he states and by the way he can’t take his eyes off it, it’s like he expects a monster to leap out from beneath it at any moment.

 

You refrain from remarking on his astute observation skills.  You’re fairly certain your sarcasm is bleeding over into your stare, however, by the way his lips pull thin as he finally meets your gaze.  Considering the type of place this is, he’s lucky the man didn’t try charging them by the hour.  

 

**“If you don’t like it, you can sleep in the car.”** _ End of conversation _ your tone says.  Not that you imagine there will be much sleeping.  With any luck, you’ll be in and out of the abandoned ranch by nightfall and headed back to the compound.  It would make for a long day, sure, but you doubt it will take much to convince Mick by the way he’s eyeing the bedspread like he might catch something just looking at it.  

 

“If you can’t survive in here, you’re never going to make it out there,” you continue.  Potentially dirty sheets should be the least of his concerns considering what he’s going up against.  

 

“I can hold my own,” he contends and the way his posture straightens, drawing him to full height you can tell his pride is beginning to bruise.  

 

“What  _ have _ you killed?” Impulsivity sparks, words shooting straight out of your mouth before you can think better of it.  What’s worse is you’re not even able to remain neutral, skepticism tinting your words until your tongue is painting cynical more than curious.  It’s a sure sign your own defenses are wearing thin.  

 

You imagine a werewolf to make his list since there had been a number of them brought in recently for training.  Maybe even a rugaru or a couple of demons.  You expect something,  _ anything _ , other than the way his lips pull even thinner as his gaze slides sheepishly away from yours.  

 

The rigidness not only eases from his frame, but his shoulders fall forward slightly and the shame you see rising up in the absence of his pride is as startling as is the revelation that Mick hasn’t killed a single thing in his entire life.  

 

Two things suddenly cross your mind.  The first is a whole lot of blasphemy, the kind you hope God hears every single word of for putting you in this position.  The second is how the chances of something going wrong have just exponentially increased to the point of near certainty.  

 

In other words, you are  _ so  _ fucked.    

 

“It doesn’t mean I can’t,” the pendulum swings back in the opposite direction and his confidence reinflates, straightening him back out as he tries to calm the panic shooting through your system.  The fact he can even sense it is slightly reassuring.

 

“The weapons we have for vampires are some of the most reliable,” he continues.  

 

While you aren’t opposed to using their resources, you also know you can’t rely on solely on munitions.  Guns jam.  Machetes break.  Runes can be shattered and magical warding can be interrupted.  When that happens? You prefer to have someone like Ketch at your back.

 

Even if he is a thieving, manipulative jackass.  

 

It’s less about the fact he’s taken your things and more him being so many steps ahead of you; not only did you not see this coming, you have no idea what his end goal could possibly be.  

 

“No offense but you Brits seem used to your reinforcements, resources...” You hold back the part about fancy hotels with equally fancy drinks. “But it’s different here.  Here, what we bring is what we have so if something goes sideways it’s just you and me,” you explain.  “We may not be as organized or as well equipped, but we also have something you can’t teach in a classroom or design a weapon for.”

 

“And what’s that?” He asks.  You make a note of how his curiosity allays his indignation.  It contradicts with his earlier flare of pride, but you’re not certain if it’s a technique to keep his ego in check or if he’s simply easily distracted.    

 

“Instincts, Mr. Davies,” you throw his last name in as a reminder that he’s still not anywhere near trusted territory.  “If you can’t figure out when to rush, when to dodge, and when to back out, it’s not going to make a difference whether you were top of your class at Kensington or a high school dropout.”

 

The real crux of the matter is you either have those instincts or you don’t.  Every American hunter you’ve met does because the ones without them don’t usually last long.  The Brits, on the other hand, stack the odds in their favor until they are nearly on autopilot and the most use their intuition gets is knowing when to bullshit and when to defer to their superiors.  

 

“I have instincts,” he argues.

 

For both your sakes, you hope that’s true. 

 

You don’t waste time gearing up.  It doesn’t surprise you that you’re partial to dead man’s blood and machetes while Mick goes on about the wonders of specially designed toxins that can either be injected or turned into an aerosol.  Like everything the Brits create, there’s a nifty toy included and, as with Ketch, you’re more than happy to let him play with it.

 

“Call me old-fashioned, but I think I’ll stick with this,” you tell him, holding up your machete before slipping it back into its sleeve. 

 

“You know if we hurry,  _ you _ might be able to make it back in time for that early bird buffet we saw on the way into town,” he deadpans so convincingly you think he might be serious.  Cinnamon dances within green depths in a way that challenges your expectations.  It’s not quite playful, not wholly  _ not _ and it’s more disarming than that fake friendliness could ever be.  

 

“Did you just make a joke, Mr. Davies?” You question, deciding to play along to see where it leads.

 

“I have been known to on occasion,” he replies, tucking his gun back in his holster before gesturing toward the door.  “Shall we?”


End file.
